River of Fire and Honey

 

River of Fire and Honey

The song of my tenderness wanders around my solitary castle like an enchanted river, woven from voices that whisper like wind through leaves, and gestures rising like mountains at dusk.

I lower the weary bridges of my pride, like branches yielding to spring,and let your lights enter — fireflies of gentle warmth, your kindnesses like petals falling upon the skin of the night.
Your eyes, two suns of blackened gold, unsettle the soul like a storm in a clear sky.

I will walk within your voice as one who throws themselves into a river of fire and honey,
where rare fish swim like liquid constellations,and the riverbanks are made of moss and longing.
I will reach your island — a secret garden where time blooms in silence, and behind the door, a banquet of ardors awaits me, with ripe fruits of promises and wines gathered from the dew of your presence.

I wish to raise the bridges like trees leaning toward an embrace,and dig a moat not of distance, but of tenderness, where sorrow dissolves like mist under the morning sun.

From the tower of my castle, I see in the distance a boat — your boat —cutting the waters like a heron in serene flight,carrying with you the scent of the tides and the whisper of stars.
It would be a pity to shipwreck without living the sweet tempests of emotion, yet may our journeys be like breezes, without pain, and our arrivals like the blooming of a flower that waited all summer.

A thousand reveries, a thousand sensations dance like leaves in the wind within my imagination.

Time — that river that takes everything and brings everything back —may, by will, pause its own current,
so that we may live forever in the brilliance of our desires, as if the world were an open field beneath the sky of our longing.

Secret Language of Souls

 

Secret Language of Souls

I cannot read your thoughts, for I live in a world woven from feelings, like a secret garden where emotions grow between roots and branches.
I run from chimeras, those shadows that dance in my mind, trying to deceive me.
I want to decipher your soul, like an explorer uncovering ancient maps, revealing the pure essence that pulses within you.
You may deny it, but we are like rivers flowing in the same direction, even if through different paths.

Do not walk away — stay here with me, for I want no lies, only truth as clear as a still lake.
If you open the door of your spirit, you will see a madhouse of emotions, a universe of madness and beauty.
Pass through my life and you will see that the one who is wild is me, a storm of longing in an irrational emptiness, like a sky without stars.

Come with me from north to south, sailing through seas of dreams and storms of doubt.
I know I am not simple — I am like a dense forest challenging the traveler, and I am not fragile at first glance, but a rock resisting the tides of time.

And if I knew I could truly try for life, perhaps I would smile like someone who finds a ray of sun after a long storm.
Look upward, for I sense your presence like a breeze crossing the clouds, and I imagine the colors of your being even in the dark, like a work of art defying the light.
We both have reasons to shape the past like sculptors and think of the future like architects.

The world may turn, and we may turn the world around, soul‑travelers searching for something greater.
I want to dive deep into your essence, like an ocean stretching into the horizon, and lose myself there, intertwining our paths like roots uniting beneath the earth.
It is all fantasy, a dream dancing in the mist, and I do not know if I am everything you desire, but when you look into my eyes, I become your reflection — a moon mirroring the sky.

I walk with courage, even when I lose myself along the journey, like a star shining in the dark night.
I lost myself and was reborn, like a phoenix reinventing itself from the ashes.
The wind carried everything away, taking my doubts and bringing new hopes.

I continue barefoot, treading painful paths, owner of no destiny, a wandering traveler in the vastness of life.
I live in a thousand colors, a thousand shapes, a thousand intensities, for life is a wild rainbow — and only you hold the brush capable of painting it with fire, with the boldness of your dreams, with the raw beauty of your truth.

My soul lives among paradoxes — coherent in its incoherence, incoherent in its coherence.
It vibrates with intensity, like a butterfly dancing among flowers, light and sublime, or like a wolf howling at the moon, thirsty for space, conquest, and freedom.

It is not stubbornness — it is a burning conviction, like a flame that does not fade.
It is yearning that burns, a longing that pulses like a racing heart.

Something transcendental: a shared rhythm, a harmony of souls recognizing each other in the midst of chaos.
Where we lose ourselves in the immensity only to find each other again in the same gesture, the same gaze, like two stars meeting in the vast universe.

We think of today, and when tomorrow arrives, we already master it with the certainty of those who know time as an ally, not an enemy.
Time is not only what passes, but also what remains, like a footprint in the sand the wind cannot erase.
It governs everything, shaping who we are, what we feel, and what we keep in memory like a hidden treasure.

Without time, there is no story, no beginning, no end.

Tell me about you.

Dark Desire

 

Dark Desire 

In the dimness of a place where light hesitates, two presences draw near — not as bodies, but as ancient forces ready to awaken.
Their gazes, embers from distant worlds, reignite memories that once slept beneath the silence of time.

An ancestral impulse, like a forgotten seed buried in dark soil, begins to stir.
They move like shadows shaped by ritual winds, a meeting of energies where every gesture whispers an omen.
The outside world dissolves — only the suspended moment remains, a field where wills confront and recognize one another.

Breaths transform into murmurs of an approaching storm.
Hands — metaphors of seeking — trace invisible maps, deciphering territories made of sensation and meaning.
Unspoken promises weave themselves through the air, in a game where nothing is possessed, only shared.

Clothing — symbol of boundaries — falls like tired autumn leaves, surrendering to the silent ground that keeps all things.
Every touch becomes an unwritten verse, every approach a lone note in a symphony of instinct that defies the clocks of the world.

In the darkness, borders are crossed that logic refuses to name.
There, they become a single flame, a dance between lightning and echoes, the point where sky and abyss brush against each other in secret.

And when the night yields to the first breath of dawn, the enchantment fades, yet its trace remains —
a whisper etched into memory, reminding them that, for a fleeting instant, they touched the eternal.

The Soul That Paints the Rainbow

 

The Soul That Paints the Rainbow

The search for coherence and cohesion is not merely a rational exercise — it is a deep dive into the soul, a dance between meaning and feeling, between what we understand and what we live. They are what give shape to true, meaningful, visceral comprehension.

The absence of coherence is like a silent scream in the void — disconnection, inconsequence, a reality that dissolves like mist at the touch of light. It is the soul in disarray, the spirit in conflict, life becoming almost surreal.
Just like saudade — that word that pulses in every verse, in every absence, in every love that burns and refuses to fade. Saudade is loss, longing, distance… but it is also desire, living memory, a flame that insists on surviving.

The human spirit is vast, untamable. It carries within it multiple connotations — vital energy, consciousness, personality. It is the fire that moves us, that defines us. And when it intertwines with the soul, it becomes eternal, a survivor of death, guardian of our deepest dreams.

My soul lives among paradoxes — coherent in its incoherence, incoherent in its coherence. It vibrates with intensity, knows what it wants, what it feels, what it seeks. It is a butterfly dancing among flowers, light and sublime. It is a she‑wolf howling at the moon, thirsty for space, for conquest, for freedom.

It is not stubbornness — it is passion. It is burning conviction. It is the longing that burns, the yearning that pulses.

I feel like a ship surrendered to the waves, cradled by the current, stirred by the breeze that wraps around me like an embrace. Cursed longing, go away! I want desire, conquest, the fire that moves me.

Desire is a living tree, its leaves clinging to hope, its flowers announcing rebirths. To desire is not merely to want — it is to burn. It is to throw oneself into the sea unafraid of the storm. It is to live without brakes, without peace — for peace, sometimes, is the silence of those who have forgotten the pleasure of feeling.

To dream and to love are primitive, wild, beautiful instincts. They are the essence of our humanity. In them we lose and find ourselves. In them we unveil mysteries and free emotions.

Life is a contract with the unexpected. It is closing our eyes and diving into imagination. Today is flame, tomorrow is mist. Without haste, we feed hopes, create enigmas. The absence of haste is a burning virtue — it scorches like lava, but it gives us power. Sovereignty. An empire of mysteries. A warmth that lifts us.

Let us trust the future. Let us learn to suspend time when hearts beat in unison. Let us live with intensity, with courage, with passion. Let us create memories worthy of kings and queens.

Life is a play without rehearsals.
So sing with a soul in flames, cry with the fury of one who feels everything, dance as if the world were ending at the next beat, and laugh with the freedom of one who has already said farewell to fear.
Live with passion, with every cell of your being, before the curtain falls and the silent audience has no time to applaud your courage.

Live in a thousand colors, in a thousand forms, in a thousand intensities.
For life is a wild rainbow — and only you hold the brush capable of painting it with the fire of your love, with the boldness of your dreams, with the raw beauty of your truth.

Time

 

Time

Time asked time how much time it has. And time replied: enough to transform everything.
But the truth is that each person lives time in a unique way.
For some, it flies.
For others, it drags.
Sometimes, it stops — as if surrendering to a moment worth more than a thousand hours.
A kiss can last a second and still feel infinite.

Time is a silent journey.
When we are immersed in something true, the world slows down, and minutes become eternities.

I miss you.
Without you, I seem lost — like a stranded boat in dry rivers, without direction, without life.

When you are near, everything changes.
You light me up.
You inspire me.
Time ceases to be a straight line and becomes a space where everything is possible.

I seek something greater: a shared rhythm, a meeting of souls that recognize each other in the midst of chaos.
Where we lose ourselves and find each other again in the same gesture, the same glance.

I touched the void, and there I understood: time is not only what passes — it is also what remains.
It rules everything.
It shapes what we are, what we feel, what we remember.

Without time, there is no story.
There is no us.

Divine Breath

 

Divine Breath

Delicately, thread by thread, the web is woven — with the patience of one who knows time and the art of seduction.
Each strand is a whisper, each knot a promise.
Motionless, the hunter observes the world with eyes of silence, while desire ripens in the half‑light.

And then, in the instant when the essence of a thousand candles ignites in the air, the embrace becomes fatal — not of death, but of eternity.
Two hearts beat in unison, and time, conquered, bows.
In the touch of lips, the infinite reveals itself in a single second.

The prey, ensnared by desire, does not resist — she surrenders to herself, divine, as if she had dreamed of this moment since the beginning of time.
Submerged, spellbound, oblivious to the world, both lose and find themselves in the same gesture.

But even the predator, master of hunger and shadow, can be overcome by enchantment.
There is a subtle twist — prey or hunter, who leads? Who yields?
Nature, wise and cunning, keeps its secrets in silence.

The urge to satisfy oneself is an ancestral, untamable force that pulses in every being.
To subdue or be subdued — this is the oldest dance in the world.
An art that transcends time, where essence becomes divine breath, and the inner light consumes thought.

It is a journey where the world ceases, and minutes become eternities.
In that same fatal embrace, the hearts return to their shared rhythm.
In the touch of lips, the infinite repeats itself and there, entwined by desire, submerged and enchanted, both surrender to the condition that binds them: prey and predator, hand in hand, in the mystery of surrender.

To Be Is a Verb

 

To Be Is a Verb

Truth and lies dance together like shadows at dusk — inseparable, indistinguishable, shaped by the light of whoever observes them. From some angles, the lie dresses itself as truth; from others, truth disguises itself as illusion. The weight of each one only reveals itself when we dare to tell them apart.
And what if everything we lived was true only while we believed it? And what if now, as we look back, it all dissolves like mist under the sun? Memory is a cracked mirror — it reflects, but it distorts.

Planting a courgette seed expecting to harvest a pumpkin is like waiting for life to give us answers to the wrong questions. A watermelon will not be born — neither miracle nor metaphor will save incoherence.

Emotions, ideas, sensations — they are siamese sisters that govern our being. They ask for no permission; they simply take the throne. They feed on our days like hungry wolves and, even so, make us feel alive.

Intuition? Perhaps it is destiny’s whisper, perhaps only an echo of fear. It separates heart from reason like a river splitting a mountain — beautiful, yet treacherous, ready to collapse into an avalanche.

Curiosity is a torch: it can illuminate or ignite. But without it, there would be no epics, no discoveries, no transcendence.

Keeping stories in chests for millennia is like preserving embers beneath ashes — they warm the soul, but they also burn with longing.

Living without chaos would be like drinking water without thirst — bland, mechanical, almost cruel. Entropy is the seasoning of existence.

Let us not deny what we are. To be is a verb that demands action: to live, to live, to live. Even if the world splits into parallels or crosses into diagonals, we are the intersection. Essence cannot be denied — it pulses, insists, resists.

Acid Rain

 

Acid Rain

The acid rain of farewell runs down my face as if each drop were a tear forged from crystal blades.
I wasn’t ready for your departure — the ground slipped from beneath my feet like leaves swept away by an autumn gale.
You left too soon, like a shooting star that fades before granting its wish.
Without you, my source of inspiration has dried up like an enchanted river forgotten by time.

I carry in my chest a garden of enigmas, where wildflowers grow among the thorns of uncertainty.
The mountains where I hide my heart — deep within the earth — tremble with the echo of your absence.
Lone wolf, you rule my soul with your howls dancing in the wind, yet I never see you.

You are a mirage in the forest of my thoughts, a shadow among the pines, a jasmine scent that vanishes at a touch.
In the solitude of my abysses, perhaps my screams are only echoes of your silences.
I travel through fields of mist, among lilies and beeches, searching for a whisper of yours — like a sweet, feverish hallucination.

A touch from you would be like dawn’s dew on burning skin: magical, chilling, liberating.
I want to lose myself in the delirium of your presence, where madness dresses itself in love and everything makes sense.

Without promises, without contracts, come back.
Pull me out of this pit of dry roots and take me to the heavens, where clouds are made of cotton and hope.
Savor my essence, which waits for you among fog, moss-covered paths, and waterfalls that sing your name.
You will find me pure, like a flower never picked, ready to feed on your touch for a thousand springs.

The tears that burn will transform into soft breeze, the swords into magnolia petals, the wounds into illusions that dance at the sound of your return.
Come back. Give me the balance to free the ink running through my veins, to write with my soul what only you make me feel.

You are more than emotion — you are a volcano in eruption, incandescent lava that does not scream to the wind, but etches your mark into the earth.
I am yours, inspiration, for as long as you remain the spell that enchants me.

Rain never forgets the storm, but it is in the calm that the miracle blooms.
It is in that sacred instant that I want to live, until my final breath.

Do not run, inspiration.
In you I planted my heart — like a seed awaiting your light.

The Light That Survives the Maze

 

 

                                                    The Light That Survives the Maze

Sometimes the mind becomes an endless maze.
We walk through dark corridors, surrounded by walls that rise without mercy, blocking our way forward.
We turn back, insist, try again—and more walls appear—a stubborn, exhausting cycle that wears down even hope.

When we long for something good to happen and everything around us insists on becoming an obstacle, the night grows heavy, steals our breath, empties our thoughts, saddens the heart.

Today I feel like this: tired, discouraged, lost in silence.
Without strength to face people, noises, problems.

But despite everything, there is one certainty that remains intact, a truth untouched by walls or labyrinths: within the soul, beautiful and powerful—there is light.
And that light, at least that, continues to illuminate the path, even when I cannot see it.

A Luz Que Sobrevive ao Labirinto

 

 

A Luz Que Sobrevive ao Labirinto 

Às vezes, o pensamento torna-se um labirinto interminável. Caminhamos por corredores sombrios, cercados por muralhas que se erguem sem piedade, impedindo-nos de avançar. Voltamos atrás, insistimos, e surgem mais muralhas — um ciclo teimoso, exausto, que desgasta até a esperança. Quando desejamos que algo bom aconteça e tudo à nossa volta insiste em ser obstáculo, a noite torna-se pesada, rouba-nos o fôlego, esvazia-nos as ideias, entristece o peito. Hoje sinto-me assim: cansada, desanimada, perdida no silêncio. Sem forças para enfrentar pessoas, ruídos, problemas. Mas, apesar de tudo, há uma certeza que permanece intacta, uma verdade que nem muralhas nem labirintos conseguem tocar: na alma, bela e poderosa— e isso, pelo menos isso, continua a iluminar o caminho, mesmo quando eu não o vejo.

Insane Longing

 

Insane Longing

Feeling longing for what was never ours is like crying over a dream that never dared to be born.
It is nostalgia for a time that never ran through the clock, an echo of footsteps that never touched the ground of reality.
It is a feeling made of mist and silence, a tapestry embroidered with threads of desire and absence.

This longing is a broken mirror where a thousand versions of a past that never existed are reflected —
a past invented by a soul hungry for meaning, for presence, for a touch that never came.
It is hope dressed in mourning, the heart writing letters to a destiny that never replied.

There is a sweet madness in this insane longing —the kind one feels for lives not lived, for loves that existed only in the space between two sighs.
It is a flame that burns without ever being lit, a fire that consumes without leaving ashes.

The mind, accomplice of the heart, recreates moments with the precision of an intoxicated poetess, and each invented memory becomes more real than any truth.

It is the desperate desire for the return of something that never left, the yearning for an embrace that never happened, for eyes that never met.

This longing weighs on the body — it becomes insomnia, anxiety, a fatigue that has no explanation.
It is time pausing to listen to the lament of a nameless absence.

One does not live to be noticed, but so that one’s absence may echo like thunder in the silence of others.

Distance, that sculptor of feelings, does to emotions what the wind does to fire: it extinguishes the small ones and inflames the great ones. And so we go on, sailing without a compass through seas of obscurity,
until the leaves of the soul fall, exhausted, in the autumn of hope.

Insane longing, I have nothing to offer you but the weariness of existing in vain, of having touched only the shadow of what could have been.
My fingers intertwined with the mist,and in the emptiness I found the essence of abandonment.

I shall remain alone, like sailboats anchored in forgotten harbors, waiting for winds that will never come.
For there are longings that have no name —they simply live within us, like storms that never cease.

Spell in Living Stone

 

Spell in Living Stone

There are days when the soul feels like a field devastated after a storm —sadness blows like a cold wind that cuts through everything without asking permission.
It is a pain that does not scream, yet consumes in silence, like a fire burning inside without showing a flame.

I feel like a withered flower in the shade, without sun, without water, without hands to touch it with tenderness.
The body feels heavy like ancient stone, forgotten in a garden where no one passes anymore.
The smile I offer is a cracked mirror — it reflects, but does not reveal.
It is an empty gesture, a perfume made of lies.

I live in a theatre of illusions, where the mask has already fused to my face.
I am invisible, as if my existence were made of mist.
Human warmth has long abandoned me — no caress, no gaze that truly sees me.

I am exhausted. So tired.
In this life, we are lost travelers, not masters of the path.
And sometimes I wonder: would the end be a kind of liberation?
But even in the unknown, perhaps live the shadows that chase us, demons that feed on what remains of our hope.

Life is a candle lit in the wind — its wax melting like tears,
and I protect the flame with trembling hands, fearing that a cruel breath will extinguish it before its time.
When I open my soul, it is treated as exaggeration, as drama.
They say it’s just a phase, but they do not see the abyss living inside me.

Perhaps a kiss — not of pity, but of truth — could break this spell.
A pure gesture that would return me to flesh, to blood, to the warmth of being human.
Just for an instant. To keep a memory strong enough to sustain me for a thousand years.

I want a shoulder where I can rest my weariness,
a simple gesture that says: “I’m here.”
An ear that listens without judgment.
I want to dare break this curse.
I want to feel again. To be.

Being human also means having cloudy days.
I want to look at myself with more gentleness, to accept that I don’t need to be strong all the time.
To allow myself to feel without fearing that I’ll seem fragile.
Maybe I am not made of spells, but of deep feelings that silence me when I most want to speak.

I want only this: to be human. For a moment.
And keep that memory like a reliquary of light,
to hold on to life when everything feels unbearably dark.

Cry

 

                                                                             Cry

Cries of blood, born from the anger of not having lived what I dreamed of living.
I hold back the tears, trying to resist the weakness that consumes me.
They are silent screams that echo in the wind.

I want to be free, if only for a day.
To free myself from this dark cave that is my mind.
Just one day of freedom.

This absurd prison without walls was created by me.
No barriers, no chains — only inertia.
No reflection, no shine in my eyes, no hope.
I live like a ghost, in the shadows of the invisible.

To whom I whisper, nothing listens.
To whom I touch, nothing feels.
My soul keeps vigil over the desire to be human, just one more time.

To emerge from my own darkness and feel on my skin caresses, love — all the forgotten sensations, like an improvised composition.
Yes, a rhapsody would make sense in this terrifying and disconcerting symbiosis.

A fusion of two idle bodies, an explosion of incandescent and fervent lava.

I am gentle and kind, not a threat.
Why won’t you let me come near?
To create unknown memories?
To be human, just once?

Ships sink without ever feeling the wind in their sails, knowing only the salt that wounds the bow in the open sea.
My story ends sadly — the one that never began.

Delusions of a captive being, gentle and kind, who only longs to be loved.
To be human for one day.
And then return to the shadows of the invisible, living like a ghost… with memories for a thousand years.

Wings of Glass

 

                               Wings of Glass

I wander through the forest with wings of glass, fragile as promises cast to the wind.
The breeze, soft as an ancient whisper, brushes my face and intoxicates me with the alchemy of wild fragrances.
All around me is a sea of vibrant green, a symphony of untouched beauty — yet silence reigns, a silence heavy as an omen.

Nature, so alive, seems to hold its breath.
Something is not right.

I am called by a soundless voice, a spell that binds itself to my soul.
I stumble through the undergrowth and, in an instant, rise into the sky with my glass wings, shimmering like dreams yet to be fulfilled.

But over a clearing, an invisible strike — like a flaming arrow — tears through the air and hits me.
The wings shatter into a thousand laments, and I fall, free‑falling into a pit where darkness is queen.

At the bottom, the ground is cold, without light.
The air is foul, stagnant, as if death itself whispered at my ear.
Nausea rises; my body weakens; the light above feels like a distant mirage.

A thousand thoughts assault me — I want to run, flee, escape this haunted, lifeless place.
Illusion, treacherous, makes me believe I am moving.
But I am still — a prisoner of the earth.
Exhausted, I scream in silence: I want to live.
My numbed body no longer serves me.
I must abandon it if I wish to survive.

I close my eyes, and my soul, light as mist, ascends.
I break through the heavens and leave behind the abyss of pain.
The moon, witness to my rebirth, watches in silence.
My crystal wings, once broken, now burn with crimson fire — I rise from the shadows at an enigmatic twilight.

I flee the clearing as one flees a nightmare.

What comes next?
Perhaps dawn will bring answers, perhaps it will unravel the mystery now dwelling within me.

I am made of endless stories, of emotions dancing with disappointments like ghosts in a forgotten castle.
But there is nothing to fear.
Courage is needed to keep walking, to wait — with a vigilant heart — for whatever destiny holds.
We are travelers, not masters of the path.

I entered the forest.
I left the forest.

Where do I go now?
It is a riddle yet unsolved.

But everything — everything — will reveal itself
at dawn.